


How To Train Your Puppy

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Collars, Creeper Elias Bouchard, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Obedience, Puppy Play, background dasira, badwrong noncon porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24258334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “I’ve been doing everything you’ve told me to,” she says. Is he implying that she hasn’t been complying with his demands? Is Basira in danger?“Yes, and I’m very pleased with you for that. Good job, Daisy.” She just barely doesn’t start at the gracious praise. That’s the first time he’s ever used her first name. She doesn’t like it. “But there’s been a certain attitude problem, so far. I’ve been indulgent, since you’ve otherwise been more than sufficient, but some of my associates may see us interacting soon, which means that I’ll need to teach you some decorum, for appearances sake if nothing else.”“Decorum,” she repeats.“Manners. Respect. Obedience. Call it what you like. What matters is that you behave appropriately.”
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	How To Train Your Puppy

Daisy would do anything for Basira. She’d lose her job, she'd kill anyone and anything for her, she’d risk her damned life, _anything._

Among all of those grand and noble sacrifices, though, she’d never imagine having to do something like this. This is harder, somehow so much harder than any of that, than killing or even possibly dying. The worst part is what she fears most is Basira _finding out_ about this painful sacrifice, being told or seeing what she’s doing to herself, what she’s letting be done to her, for her sake. It doesn’t feel brave. It doesn’t feel honorable. It feels like something that would make Basira think less of her, something that would make it so that she could never be able to look her in the eye again. 

Which is probably exactly why Elias Bouchard is doing this to her. 

It starts about a month in. The man had waited, patient and smiling, enjoying her helpless anger at being ordered around. She’d been grinding her teeth then, but it hadn’t been so bad, had it? He’d only been ordering her to do things that she would be doing anyways. Hunting and killing monsters. It was now just focused on the monsters inconveniencing Bouchard specifically, but the fact that he can point her to new targets so quickly more than makes up for it. It’s just that she doesn’t have a say in it that grates on her, really, that and having Basira be threatened. But at the end of the day, she hunts and kills, and while she does it she forgets and she enjoys. 

Having to occasionally stalk and protect Jonathan Sims _really_ pissed her off, when he _should_ be buried in a shallow grave in the woods. But again: thinking back, it hadn’t been that bad. 

It starts with Bouchard calling her up to his office. She thinks about ignoring him, about going after making him stew and wait for a while first, and she knows that she can’t afford to do any of that. Basira’s at his mercy. Hatred simmering in her blood, she goes when called for, prompt and dutiful. 

She walks past the cute secretary, ignoring her when she tries to say something, and walks into the now familiar office without knocking. Kicks the door shut behind her, and stands at parade rest in front of his desk. He doesn’t look up, and she grits her teeth. Reminds her of her last police chief. The constant petty fucking powerplays, as if she would ever want his cozy desk job in a million years. 

“Miss Tonner,” he greets her pleasantly after he pointedly finishes reading the paragraph he was on. He gives her a mildly chiding look. “You should remember to knock before you enter someone else’s space, even if you were invited.” 

“What do you want,” she says, unamused by his bullshit, eager to just get her marching orders and get out of here. Following Bouchard’s orders are definitely far more fun than getting them. 

“I want to…” he pauses, seemingly searching for the right words, “house train you.” 

She… cannot have heard that right. “What did you say?” 

“Perhaps not the best way to phrase myself. I know you can use a restroom just fine, Miss Tonner.” He gives her a reassuring look, like she’d seriously been worried about that. “It would be more accurate to say that I want to have you on your best behavior, and that may take some guidance from me. This has been a fairly hands off relationship so far, me giving you your assignments and watching you from afar as you fulfill them. Good work, of course, but still. You could use a bit of polishing.” 

“I’ve been doing everything you’ve told me to,” she says. Is he implying that she hasn’t been complying with his demands? Is Basira in danger? 

“Yes, and I’m very pleased with you for that. Good job, Daisy.” She just barely doesn’t start at the gracious praise. That’s the first time he’s ever used her first name. She doesn’t like it. “But there’s been a certain _attitude problem,_ so far. I’ve been indulgent, since you’ve otherwise been more than sufficient, but some of my associates may see us interacting soon, which means that I’ll need to teach you some decorum, for appearances sake if nothing else.” 

“Decorum,” she repeats. 

“Manners. Respect. Obedience. Call it what you like. What matters is that you behave appropriately.” 

This is what she hates about men like Bouchard. (One of the hundreds of things.) They don’t just want your compliance; they want for you to act happy and grateful for it as well, politely accepting all the bullshit they shovel for you. She’s been striving to be so goddamned competent and indispensable for the last few decades of her life that men like Bouchard _can’t_ get rid of her even if she doesn’t simper and smile for them, even if they don’t like it, even if they find other ways to punish her for it. But this one has her over a barrel. This one has Basira. 

Daisy would do anything for Basira. 

“Fine,” she makes herself grit out. “I’ll be… polite.” 

“That’s wonderful, dear.” She suppresses another twitch at that. _Dear._ “I really believe you, I do. But I’m afraid that just isn’t good enough. How am I to expect you to behave in the right way if I don’t give you the due training? I’d be setting you up for failure. I’m not that cruel.” 

She grinds her teeth. Training. She doesn’t know what Bouchard thinks that means yet, but she already knows that whatever it is, she’ll fucking despise it. But it seems like he’s set on it, and she doesn’t really have a choice in the matter, does she? 

God, that pisses her off. 

“Fine,” she says again. 

“Good, good,” he says. “Take your clothes off.” 

She stares at him. 

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” he sighs. “The hesitation, making me repeat myself, drawing things out. You’re going to have to be used to following my orders, Daisy, no matter how surprising to you they may be.” 

Does he actually want for her to take her clothes off, or was that just a fucking test? 

He snaps his fingers at her impatiently. “You’re still keeping me waiting, Daisy, that’s no good. Come on now. Clothes off.” 

She clenches her jaw, and vividly imagines lunging across the desk and tearing his throat out with her teeth, her nails, the letter opener. 

Instead, she starts to take her clothes off. Elias makes a soft, approving noise as soon as she starts unbuckling her belt. Kick her shoes off, shrug off her jacket, pull off her shirt, her trousers. Doesn’t let herself hesitate as she takes off her sports bra, and finally peels off her pants. Lets it all pool on the floor messily, and stands in front of him stark naked, not trying to cover herself. Glaring straight at him challengingly. He wanted proof of her obedience? He wanted to see how far he could push her? He would get exactly what he asked for, but she wouldn’t cry about it. She had that, at least. 

He doesn’t do her the grace of looking her back in her eyes, instead sweeping his eyes up and down her naked body. It’s less of an appreciative leer and more of an appraising gaze, like a man carefully buying a new horse, searching for flaws and noting virtues. 

She has never wanted to kill someone more in her entire life. 

“Very good,” he says eventually. He reaches towards his desk and opens a drawer, and takes something out of it, tossing it onto the floor in front of her. “Now put that on.” 

It’s a collar. Black, leather, with some steel in it. 

“Daisy,” he says reproachfully. 

She decides in that moment: she _will_ kill him. One day, somehow, Basira won’t be in his grasp any longer, and the second that happens he’s a dead man. All of the other hostages don’t matter. Acceptable collateral damage, all of them, for the sake of killing a monster like him. 

He clicks his tongue at her. She bends down and picks the collar up. Puts it around her neck. After a moment she manages to tighten it appropriately, fasten it. She lets go. She’s overly conscious of the feeling of it around her neck, of Bouchard looking at her wearing nothing but the collar that he gave her, like she’s an animal. 

“Good girl,” he says, with a smile that says that he knows exactly what he’s doing, and that he’s going to get away with it. 

For now, she reminds herself. He’s getting away with it for now, but someday he’ll pay. Until then though, she’s going to have to swallow all of her rage down and play along. For each humiliating order he gives her, she’ll draw his death out a little slower. She promises herself that. 

He pushes his chair out a little bit from his desk, and then pats a hand on his thigh. “Come here, darling.” 

She has to play along, just for now. Just for now. 

She walks over to him, around his desk, and sits down in his lap. He’s within biting range now. She could reach out and start choking him. It would be so easy. 

She can’t. She can see it in the delighted sparkle in his blue eyes. 

He strokes a hand up her spine, and she wants to recoil from it, but that would just make her arch into him, and no. No, she’s only going to do the bare minimum of what she’s told to do here. 

“I didn’t have to repeat myself, that time,” he says. “See, the training is already paying off. All you need is some direction, and you’re already behaving so _well._ I’m proud of you, Daisy.” 

She doesn’t say anything. 

“Really, though, I shouldn’t have had to tell you to come to me. Wasn’t patting my thigh enough? You’re not a dumb girl, I know you aren’t. That’s another thing you need to learn to grasp. Nonverbal orders.” 

With that, he puts a hand at the back of her neck, and draws her in. She’s strong enough to resist him if she wants to. That’s the point; nonverbal orders. She lets him pull her in, until his lips are on hers. It’s a mocking pantomime of sweet chasteness. She’d been planning on keeping her eyes open in a flat glare through it, because closing them feels too much like intimacy, feels too much like something she’d do if she were kissing someone she actually likes. But his eyes are open too, looking straight into her, so she closes them. He licks at her mouth and she opens it. She lets him stick his tongue inside her mouth, lets him taste her, without moving her tongue or kissing back or moving or making any sort of noise. 

He squeezes the back of her neck once with his hand. Nonverbal orders. Right. 

Think about Basira. 

She kisses him back, her tongue on his. She makes a faint noise that could be interpreted as pleasure. He strokes the back of her neck approvingly, right across the collar, and she hates him. 

He spends a long, long time just kissing her, making her kiss him. Luxuriating in it, in being able to make her do something like this. Eventually, finally, he pulls her back by her hair, breaking the kiss. 

_“Good_ girl,” he says warmly. “You’re learning so quickly. You deserve a treat.” 

He strokes her hair like he’s petting a beloved dog with one hand, and with the other he tugs at one of her nipples. She’s startled enough that a soft huff of air escapes her. 

“Did you like that? Do you like being petted and having your nipples played with, Daisy?” 

She doesn’t say anything. His hand fists in her hair, pulling painfully instead of gently carding his fingers through it, his fingers pinching tight around her nipple. It hurts. She prefers it to the condescending tenderness. It’s somehow less insulting, less violating. It’s an honest attack, like she’s used to. 

But being hurt isn’t the worst that can happen here, if she’s disobedient. She’s not the only one in danger. 

“Yes,” she makes herself say. 

“Your tone is disrespectful,” he reproves. 

She tries to take the hateful snarl out of her voice. “Yes, I like it.” 

His hand in her hair relaxes, and he caresses her pinched nipple gently, almost apologetically. “Better. What is it that you like?" 

"I like being petted and having my nipples played with." 

"That's it." 

He leans in and sucks on her other nipple, and continues to stroke and gently tug at the other one, making her nipples peak with the stimulation. She stubbornly forces herself not to wriggle in his lap at the sensation, to keep her mouth shut, her expression blank. 

The hand that had been petting her hair slides down her body. Down her face, her neck, her arm, her stomach-- no. _No._

In between her legs. One of his fingers slips in, and her entire body locks up against her will. 

He stops carefully nipping at one of her nipples with his teeth at that to chuckle against the tingling skin, spit slick and prickling and sensitized. 

“So wet,” he says fondly. “Eager thing, aren’t you?” 

No. She’s not-- 

A second finger slips in as easy as the first. He hums and kisses at her throat, right above her collar. 

“Such a sweet puppy for me,” he coos. 

She can barely bring herself to breathe, and then he starts to finger her. A slow and luxurious tempo, like he has all of the time in the world. His other hand strokes up and down her spine in tempo with his fingers, as if soothing her. 

“It feels like you could fit so much more in here,” he muses, rubbing his fingers up inside of her cunt. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be filled up? Poor thing, so tense all of the time. You need to get fucked, don’t you?” 

She remembers, belatedly, that she’s supposed to respond. That she needs to unlock her jaw and force out, “Yes. I need to get fucked.” 

She hadn’t needed to keep a growl out of that one. It had sounded downright _breathy._ She hates it, hates him, hates herself, hates _this._

Bouchard makes a noise between amused fondness and pitying sympathy. “Well, when you’re such a good puppy, you deserve to get fucked. Poor dear, being so patient in my lap, letting me play with you to my heart’s content, when all the while you’ve been so empty without any cock in you.” 

He takes his fingers out of her, and she hates that she feels the absence of them. He unbuckles his belt, unbuttons and unzips his trousers, fishes his hard cock out of his pants. Of course he’s hard. Having her helpless and humiliated like this, the fearsome Hunter reduced to obeying his every command, no matter how degrading or debasing, his obedient dog-- it must be the greatest sexual high he’s had in years, an unrivaled power trip. 

“Come on now, puppy. You don’t have to wait any longer, get on it.” 

She silently _boils._ And then she puts her hands on his shoulders (and she doesn’t dig her nails in) and she levers herself up onto her knees, shuffles closer, and then sits back down into his lap again so that his cock spears through her cunt this time. She wants to sit down quickly, casually, like it isn’t a big deal-- but she’s never had a dick inside of her before. A raw noise is ripped out of her throat after only a couple of inches, and she has to stop for a moment. 

Bouchard exhales sharply at the feeling of her around the tip of his cock, and then he laughs again, still condescending despite the slight uncomposed waver at the edges. He puts a hand on the edge of her jaw, thumb stroking little circles onto her cheek bone. 

“Desperate thing,” he says, his voice more gravelly now. “Don’t strain yourself in your eagerness.” 

She just barely stops herself from biting at his hand, from baring her teeth at him. Slowly, painstakingly, she makes herself slide down another few inches. Bouchard’s hands on her hips tighten at the sensation. 

“So _tight,”_ he says approvingly. “You were so good, saving yourself like that for me.” 

She hadn’t been saving herself for him. They both know that. 

She forces herself down, down, until his entire shaft is buried inside of her and there’s involuntary tears of strain in her eyes. Bouchard coos at her again, his poor darling, and he wipes them away. 

And then he thrusts up into her. She’s pressed flush against him, so it’s barely more than a languorous roll of the hips, pressure. But it still punches a gasp out of her anyways. 

“You like that?” Bouchard asks, smiling with such delight at her weakness. 

“Yes,” she says without hissing. "I like it." 

Bouchard hums with approval again, and reaches down and lightly circles her clit with his thumb. Her entire body shivers against her will at that, so obvious. 

“Fuck yourself on my cock, puppy,” he says. 

She grits her teeth, and then slowly drags her cunt back off his cock, lifting herself up by her knees. When nothing but his head is left inside of her, she _slams_ herself back down again. She swears. Bouchard exhales roughly again. 

“I know this is all overwhelming for you,” he says, his voice even lower with the sex, a honeyed pleased baritone, a gently reproving father, “but don’t be crass, dear.” 

“Sorry,” she makes herself say. And then before he can open his obnoxious, hateful mouth again, she lifts herself up again, and slams back down. Again, again. She just has to get into a rhythm, she just has to overwhelm him to the point that he can’t make this even worse. 

She hates how she can’t stop her breathing from growing fast and loud as she fucks herself on him, hates how he laughs with breathless approval and pleasure. 

“Do you like it?” he asks. It’s an order, in a way, even though it isn’t phrased like one. 

“Yes,” she says, as she bounces on his cock. "It's good." 

“I’m glad,” he says warmly, and then he’s thumbing at her clit again even as she fucks herself on him and no that’s not what she wants _no._ His other hand comes up to her mouth, and after a confused moment she realizes what he wants. She opens her mouth, and doesn’t bite down as he sticks two of his fingers into her mouth. 

“Something for you to suck on,” he says graciously, like it’s a gift to her. 

She sucks on them. She fucks herself on his cock. He strokes her clit, and looks at her with smug pleasure as she wears nothing but the collar he gave her. No growling or threats or posturing, only a sweet obedient puppy in his lap, happy to be fucked and talked down to. 

She hates. She hates. She _hates._

She comes. 

She can’t remember the last time she came this hard. It rips every seething thought out of her head, nothing but an overwhelming crash of firing nerve endings left, and for a moment she just feels _good._ Filled up and warm. She’s moaning, but the sound is muffled by something inside of her mouth. 

“Oh,” he rumbles. “That’s right. Good girl. You’re doing so well.” 

She feels too dizzy to really register what he’s saying. He takes his fingers out of her mouth, wipes the spit on them off on her chest, stops playing with oversensitive clit, and grabs her by the hips. He lifts her up like a doll, and then pulls her back down as he thrusts up into her. Again, again. She’s fucked limp and dazed, and he continues to fuck her so relentlessly that she doesn’t get enough space to regather her composure, her thoughts. Eventually, he grunts and bites down onto her shoulder as his entire body seizes, and she’s pulled down onto his cock as tightly as possible, held in place like he wants to keep her there forever. 

He’s coming inside of her, she realizes distantly. She finally manages to get herself together, in the time Bouchard takes to just float in his post orgasmic haze. She feels the sweat on her bare skin, the warm prickle of nerves around her crotch. She feels hollow, defeated. She came. He made her orgasm on his cock. 

Bouchard lets out an infinitely pleased sigh. 

“I know you’d like to sit on it all day, but I really do need to get some work done today, puppy,” he says. “Get off my cock.” 

With shaking thighs, she gets off his cock. She feels empty without it. Bouchard pulls her in and kisses her thoroughly again, and then lets her go. He waves her off towards her clothes dismissively. She goes, doesn’t let herself waver too obviously on her now weak legs. Bends down to pick up her clothes, feels come trickling down the inside of her thigh. She puts her clothes on. Goes to leave. 

“Miss Tonner, wait.” She stops. Distantly notes the change of address, but feels too tired to even speculate about what it means. She looks at him. Bouchard grins, and taps at his own throat. “You might want to take that off before you head out,” he says kindly. 

She touches her throat. The collar. She unbuckles it off herself with clumsy fingers, and then drops it to the floor like it’s a dead snake. 

Bouchard smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Tonner.” 

He ends up giving her a target, tomorrow, instead of more ‘house training’. Apparently, she’s still good for more than just being a sex toy. She hunts it down, and she takes her _time_ with killing it. She makes it scream, and beg, and bleed, and cry. 

The next day, it _is_ more house training. He bends her over his desk and makes her beg for his cock, to be allowed to come, to be filled up by his spunk. 

It continues like that - killing targets, guarding Sims, house training, acting like nothing’s wrong around Basira, avoiding Basira so she doesn’t have to act like nothing’s wrong - until finally it comes up. Bouchard had started this all in the first place because he wanted for her to be on her best behavior when seen by his associates. It’s a fundraiser, of all things, and she laughs.

Laughs less when he chooses the outfit for her to wear as his date: heels and a dress (she hasn’t worn anything but a suit or her uniform to an event in decades), no pants or bra, and a collar with a leash. 

“Remember your training, puppy,” he says pleasantly, as he fastens the collar for her, and she doesn’t bite him for it. “Don’t talk unless spoken to, be polite if anyone _does_ speak to you for some reason, accept all touches, suck and let yourself be fucked by whoever wishes it, and be my good girl. You should put some lipstick on, by the way.” 

She does remember her training, even through being led through a crowd of rich toffs dressed in their finest and sipping at their champagne glasses on a leash like she's pedigree pet that Bouchard is particularly proud of. Through people asking Bouchard for permission to pet her, she’s such a dear, does she bite? Through people talking about her right in front of her like she’s a dog, praising Bouchard for her excellent manners which Bouchard humbly accepts. Through people squeezing her tits, and fucking her mouth and her cunt and her arse, and laughing about the housebroken Hunter, and they really should get one themselves, shouldn’t they? She remembers her training through all of it. 

For Basira. 

(Because it’s been drilled down into her bones by now.) 

"Such a _good_ puppy," Bouchard purrs after all of it, hand in her hair, doting and proud. 


End file.
